


some memories are like cough drops

by sentimentals



Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Gen, Platonic Soulmates, gratuitous use of adjectives
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-30
Updated: 2016-05-30
Packaged: 2018-07-11 02:35:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7023583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sentimentals/pseuds/sentimentals
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>a timeline told in broken sounds and smells and buds from a pot of mums on a fire escape in brooklyn, when they were young and the world was gentler</p>
            </blockquote>





	some memories are like cough drops

Steve is _amazing_ at drawing.

He just has a ** _touch_** , a... _way_ of holding a stick of graphite- that certain gentleness and intimacy, balanced so precariously on the bellows of zeal. Every line he carves out on paper nips at the heels of life, just shy of jumping out at you. Oh and _sure_ , graphite is nice, but charcoal is his _favorite_. It’s deep and rich, and warm, and every face he catches in those bold black strokes just....sparks with something _else_.

What no one ever talks about, though, is James Buchanan Barnes’ _voice_.

At night sometimes, when they were younger, they would sit on that fire escape- the one with the pot of mums that stuck around until long after November- and swing their legs between the rails. There was often a trolley that ran under them and its little bell jingled bright and sweet over the evening buzz of Brooklyn. And on the nights that little bell rang, Bucky would sing.

His voice was bright and gentle and simple, and he sang made-up songs just above his breath, ones that made Steve laugh.  
He would stop and laugh too sometimes, but it was the kind of quiet laugh that you have just to yourself.

That laugh melted into a chuckle as his shoulders broadened and his dimples deepened into smile lines. His voice swelled into a tenor bubbling with joy and mischief, and with a warmth that took the edge off the colder days and thinner clothes. Something was just _right_ about those nights, even though getting their legs through the bars of the fire escape started to kind of hurt.

After the war struck and decided to stay, Steve helped him stand- Bucky couldn’t have always been that light- and get _out_ of that horrid place. A week later, someone found a lucky harmonica in tip-top mint condition. Steve got real quiet when a voice lifted up over the clang of mess pots and pans to join that little instrument, weak and pitchy but warm as ever. And Bucky kept that up, just like barely anything had changed.

  
 Then it happened-that awful railing that wasn’t screwed in _quite_ tight enough, that grip that _just_ wasn’t strong enough, that arm that _still_ couldn’t reach far enough- and the world became a mess of _almosts_. That voice got snuffed out like a cheap match for lighting cigarettes.

Bucky didn’t sing anymore. He didn’t remember how to sing. Even when he just talked all that came out were hoarse rasps and dust, and decay, and death. But then those eyes were there again, those sparking greeny-blues that he cross-his-heart-and-hope-to- _die_ promised to protect on a fire escape in Brooklyn with the mums that lasted through November and the rails that hurt his knees and the trolley bell and all James Buchanan Barnes could do was **croak**

And when he saw them again all he could do was **shout until he was hoarse**

and pull Steve out of the water. And when he walked away, he screamed until he thought he wouldn’t ever talk again.

But those greeny-blues came back one more time (the third time’s always the charm, they say). And slowly, slowly- slower than each thaw took it seems- a warmth begins to bud in his throat. It’s strange and almost hurts because something about it seems _so_ familiar and-

  
The last time he leaves the cryostasis chamber- the last thaw- feels just like snow melting, like coal ash clearing, like tears being wiped away.

And not long after that, Steve hears him hum. 


End file.
